Authors: Vicki Lane
The Drovers’ Road XVIII
A Murder Tale
I come awake of a sudden, thinkin I had heard footsteps and the sound of the front door openin slow and careful. Maybe, thinks I, hit’s Belle and Lydy slippin out to the barn. Iffen I can wake that ol’ fool and take him to where they lay…
Not stoppin to dress, I pulled my shawl round me and went, barefoot and quiet as ary night moth, through the dogtrot and out to the porch. I quick looked toward the barn, thinkin to see the two of them movin along the path, but there weren’t nothing but the moon on the snow and the black shapes of them ol’ boxwoods. Just a dream, I thought and turned to go back to my warm bed. Hit was then I saw what lay on the path below the steps.
Looking back these fifty years and more, I marvel that I was so clearheaded and quick-thinkin in that dreadful moment. I stood there lookin at my daddy’s body and at the long kitchen knife, silver sharp in the moonlight, and at the dark blood goutin slow from the dreadful cut acrost his neck—like a pig-killin, I thought, when they bleed the hog.
He weren’t nothing to me, atter the way he’d done me afore all the company, and I have never yet in all these years shed ary tear for that old man. I just went on watchin the blood and thinking on what this meant for me and the babe I carried.
I knowed that Belle or Lydy or the two of them together must have done this thing. But hit was me who had quarreled with my daddy but a few hours since. Hit was me who’d hollered out before the sheriff that I’d serve him out. I made no doubt that they would accuse me of comin upon my daddy, layin dead drunk and helpless, and all in a passion, seizin up that knife and cuttin his throat. And I might have done hit too, for he was hateful to me and I was glad that he was gone. But someone had been afore me.
All this thinkin happened so fast that his blood was yet flowin when I seen what I could do.
The house behind me was quiet. Hit seemed to me that the murderer had likely gone back to bed and was layin there sleepless, waitin for someone to find the body in the mornin and then point a finger at me. So I made a plan.
I hurried down the path to the river, pretendin someone had aholt of my arm and was draggin me. I could see by the light of the settin quarter-moon how the print of my bare feet showed clear in the thin skift of snow on the path.
Oncet to the river, I turned and come back, takin long strides and stayin close to the marks I had already left. Then I dried my feet and crept into the house. I put on an ol’ raggedy dress from my scrap bag—a dress that wouldn’t be missed. And then I went and found Lydy’s boots where he’d left them to dry by the fire.
Hit was so simple, I like to bust out laughin. With the boots on my feet, I went to where my daddy lay and made sure to tread in the blood and tromp all round, covering my footprints. I walked down to the river again, each step covering the marks of my bare feet returnin. I had ripped my night shift and dipped it in the blood and now I flung it into a patch of brambles beside the path. There was but the final set of tracks to make, back to the house and up the steps, leavin bloody snow on the wood, and back to the fireplace, where I took off the boots and left them for Lydy.
Chapter 51
The Dakwa Waits
Thursday, December 28
I
t seemed to Elizabeth that she had been paddling for hours, always aiming for the nearer bank only to be thrust back, again and again, by the capricious, malicious current, almost to the middle of the river. She had negotiated several small rapids, just managing not to flip over.
But they’re little ones—beginner stuff.
A low growl ahead reminded her.
That big scary one is somewhere up there—the one Ben and Amanda said the guides wouldn’t run at night. Too dangerous.
The ominous roar grew louder. In the distance ahead the moonlit river was a churning, turbulent field of solid white. The icy water sloshing in the bottom of the raft was inching higher and her frantic attempts to propel the clumsy, half-inflated craft toward the shore were continually countered by rapid streams flowing through the narrow channels among the rocks.
This is fucking hopeless. There’s no way I can get past that hydraulic up there. Ben said it takes a seasoned guide to run it at high water and I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. If I overturn, I’ll be sucked under, and that’ll be the end of it.
“A hollow under there the size of a car,” the guide had said last summer, before carefully maneuvering the raft Elizabeth and Phillip were in through a series of rapid drops bounded on either side by protruding rocks. “Divers went down there a while back when there was an accident—some fool in a kayak. No PFD, no helmet, no experience—what can you expect?”
No PFD—personal flotation device. She remembered the raft trip last summer, how in a deceptively calm section of the river, the guide had allowed them overboard to experience the currents. “You won’t be able to swim,” he had warned. “What you want to do is lay back flat with your feet up and pointed downstream. Your PFD—your life vest—will support you. Remember, feet
up
and downstream—just go with it.”
It had been blissful—being carried along effortlessly, enjoying the cold water on a hot day. And then the powerful hands of the guide, grabbing her by the shoulders of her life vest and whisking her magically back to the safety of the raft before the coming rapids.
The coming rapids—no life vest.
And if somehow I
managed
to get to shore, I’d be soaking wet, in the middle of the woods, in December. How long before hypothermia sets in?
A cloud slid over the face of the moon, momentarily turning the river before her to unfathomable darkness—to a nothingness down which she was dashing as in some horrible nightmare. The roar ahead was louder still.
“That’s the Dakwa, hungry for his dinner,” the guide had said, part of the weary patter handed down from one guide to another and trotted out for the tourists year after year in hopes of eliciting tips at the end of the day. “Yep, Mr. Dakwa’s belly’s growlin’, for sure.”
A feeling of great weariness came over her. She was still mechanically paddling, still trying to propel the semi-inflated raft toward the nearer shore, but it was as if her mind was no longer engaged. Thoughts of surrender, of letting go, of giving herself to the river, of the peace that passeth understanding—
“NOOO!” she yelled, breaking the spell that the constant hypnotic roar of the rapids had cast. “No, goddammit! If I don’t make it, those murdering bastards will get away!”
Digging her paddle into the water with renewed energy, she turned her head to the nearer shore, trying desperately to make out the outline of the trees against the sky. Blackness reigned.
And then, in the midst of the black, too low, far, far too low to be a star, shone a small yellow light. At the same moment, the moon emerged from the clouds, bathing the river in its radiance and revealing close at hand a line of rocks stretching almost to the riverbank.
With one last furious effort, she sank the paddle’s blade into the water, digging hard and fast. The raft inched closer to the rocks, its unwieldy bulk veering and yawing in the current.
It happened so quickly—she hadn’t stopped to consider, not even a
one, two, three, now or never
had crossed her mind. One minute she was in the raft, reaching out to catch hold of the edge of the nearest rock, and the next she was underwater, her feet swept from under her and her body falling forward, caught in the inexorable grasp of the river.
Oh, god, I don’t want to drown.
The water was so cold, so swift. She fought to bring her feet back under her and pawed wildly, trying to get her head above the surface.
I have to breathe!
But still the black river held her in its cold embrace. The memory of Nola—open-mouthed as the water took her—flashed across Elizabeth’s fading consciousness. For one nightmare moment the white face stared at her, the pale lips moved, and a thin, bloodless hand beckoned.
No! I won’t!
Driven by mindless terror, Elizabeth thrashed against the current, her lungs burning.
I have to breathe!
Her flailing legs knocked against something hard; her boots slipped down its smooth length. Frantically she tried to catch hold of it, a miraculous, solid
it
in this eternity of rushing waters. With a mighty twist of her body, she heaved herself forward.
A tree limb, a blessed tree limb, its rough bark slimy with long immersion. She clutched at it with both hands and
oh, mercy of mercies
it held firm, lodged by the water’s force into a crevice in the rocks. She hauled herself along it till her head broke the surface and at last she could breathe. Clinging to the sturdy branch, her lungs gulping down icy air, Elizabeth looked downriver, just in time to see her abandoned raft tossed into the air.
Shuddering with cold and adrenaline, she began the tedious journey to the shore, dragging herself along the limb as the river tugged at her body—trying to break her hold, trying to win her back.
I thought there was a light.
The moon revealed only dark woods. Elizabeth inched her way through the frigid water to the cluster of rocks where the limb was wedged. Here, the river was only waist-high, but the current was so strong that she had to cling to the rocks to avoid being knocked down. Her hands were numb with cold and it grew increasingly difficult to hold on.
Creeping painfully along the slippery rocks, at last she reached a shelf—a slab of stone with less than a foot of water washing gently over it. With a ragged sob of relief, she dragged her weary, bruised body onto it and crawled to the rocky shore.
“Stand up, Elizabeth. Stand up and keep moving.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper in the cold moon-brushed night, but her stubborn body obeyed the command. She forced herself upright and began to limp toward the dark trees.
I thought there was a light.
Chapter 52
A Light in the Woods
Thursday, December 28
M
oonbeams danced and shimmered through the bare branches above her head, confusing her sense of direction.
If I keep my back to the river and just go on walking, I’ll hit the highway…eventually. But I have to keep moving.
Elizabeth’s teeth were chattering and her sodden boots felt like lumps of lead around the lumps of ice that were her feet. Already the sound of the river was growing fainter.
And if I can’t hear it behind me, I could walk in circles.
I thought there was a light.
Her soaking jacket weighed heavy on her body, a film of ice beginning to glaze its surface. She pulled off the sopping garment and tried to squeeze some of the water from it before thrusting her arms back into its icy embrace. Sitting down to remove her boots and wring out her socks seemed like a good idea, but she knew that once down, there was a strong possibility she wouldn’t be able to get back up. Stifling a sob, she plunged blindly into the deep woods.
I thought there was a light.
The going was rocky and steep and the twisted tree roots over which she clambered made eerie patterns in such faint luminescence as sifted through the lacy winter branches. Only the knowledge that she must keep moving or die impelled her on into the unknown darkness.
Left, right, left, right, boots, boots, boots, boots, moving up and down again,
she drove her aching body forward.
And there was a light.
Its soft yellow glow beckoned from between two ancient trees, and Elizabeth broke into an awkward run, staggering and slipping on the frozen earth. The light was warmth, someone to help her, someone to do the thinking she was finding increasingly difficult.
A hunter or a camper? Who would be out on a frigid winter night? She thudded doggedly on.
Hunter, camper, soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, it doesn’t fucking matter. Just let it be someone who can get me out of here before I lie down and freeze to death.
She fought her way toward the beam, stumbling through the undergrowth, ignoring the brambles that slapped her face and pulled at her freezing clothes. The light burned steadily.
Then there was the cloying smell of boxwoods as she pushed through a mass of brambles into a clearing. At the farther edge of the open ground sat a small stone house, surrounded by the black shapes of ancient boxwoods. In its single window, a candle burned.
Summoning the last of her strength, Elizabeth plodded on numb feet toward this unexpected apparition. There were no more questions, only the overwhelming desire to be inside and near that light.
“Hello!” she tried to call out to make her presence known, but her voice failed her, producing only a strangled whisper. She raised a fist to knock on the rough wooden door, and it swung open at her first touch. Hesitating on the doorstep, she managed to croak out another weak “Hello?” and then, receiving no answer, stepped inside.
The caressing warmth of the fire burning in the stone fireplace enveloped her like a mother’s loving embrace, and she crossed the puncheon floor in three steps to stand shivering on the hearth. Painfully, she began to pull off her frozen clothing.
There was no one in the tiny room. In one corner a wooden bedstead with a sagging mattress was piled with blankets, and she pulled one off to use as a towel. When she had restored the circulation to her hands and feet and dried herself as well as possible, she wrapped a second blanket around her and added another log to the fire. She sank into a rustic chair by the hearth and let the warmth sweep over her till, at last, the shivering stopped and she dozed, head nodding on her chest.
An enticing smell penetrated her consciousness and her head jerked up.
I was dreaming about beef stew. But I must have just dozed for a minute—that log I put on isn’t even burning good yet.
Still half asleep, she stood, noting the innumerable bruises, scrapes, and scratches on her arms and legs. The candle on the windowsill caught her eye, and she limped over to examine it.
Who would go off and leave a candle and a fire burning?
A small wooden table sat beneath the window, and she stared in amazement.
Was that there when I came in?
A brown earthenware bowl, filled with a steaming stew, lay before her. So too did a wooden spoon and a dented metal cup, brimming with some amber liquid. A scent of flowers and honey hung in the air, deliciously entwined with the savory aroma of meat and onions.
I’d better eat that before I wake up and it’s gone.
The illogic of the thought almost made her laugh, but she seated herself at the table and plunged the spoon into the stew. In the window the candle burned steadily, sending out the sweet fragrance of beeswax.
The last gratifying, unctuous spoonful of the food was gone, and, still in a waking dream, she reached for the cup and sniffed at the contents—a rich mix of honey and alcohol. One sip and then another.
It must be honey wine—mead or, what was the old name—metheglin? Who was telling me about that not long ago?
She swallowed the last of the sweet, strong drink, feeling its warming tendrils creeping through every fiber of her weary body. Her head swam with the warmth and the wine, and, happily overcome, she stood and lurched toward the bed.
I’ve sat in the chair and eaten the food. As I seem to have fallen into a fairy tale, I might as well sleep in the bed.
Unwrapping the blanket from her body, she spread it over the bed, then slid under the covers, falling instantly and gratefully asleep to dream of a black bear at the door that reared up and, shifting shape, became a smiling dark woman with flowers in her hair.